


Insomnia

by Mraowface



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Drinking alone, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 04:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mraowface/pseuds/Mraowface
Summary: Aziraphale's gone, and for once Crowley can't sleep...





	Insomnia

Crowley blinked his overtired eyes. It was five days since Aziraphale had gone, and it felt like weeks. He'd tried to sleep – that had been the whole idea behind his staying here alone, to catch up on his rest. But something felt _wrong._

He curled up on the bookshop sofa, trying to feel closer to Aziraphale. It was stupid really, he had been the one pushing the angel to go and enjoy himself. So he should be happy that Aziraphale had listened. Aziraphale deserved some time away – it was patently clear to Crowley that a demon made terrible company.

Aziraphale had wanted to reconnect with modern literature, so this book festival had seemed like a great plan. He'd been excited doing the research, and booking tickets, and Crowley had been excited for him. And then he was gone, and... emptiness.

It felt _familiar._ This hollow feeling inside, the restlessness. Normally he'd sleep it off, for a month, a few years. And he'd tried. But something was stopping him. He'd stubbornly shut his eyes for hours at a time, pretending to himself that he'd just ebb into unconsciousness. But all he could hear in his head was his own voice. _He's not here._

He'd tried background music, and old episodes of his favourite podcast on infectious diseases. He'd even tried _reading._ Nothing worked. Normally a few days without sleep wouldn't do him much harm, but he felt exhausted. He found himself talking to Aziraphale out loud, mumbling conversations with him. It didn't do much, apart from making him feel worse.

The idea of calling Aziraphale was always in the back of his mind, but he pushed it down. His angel deserved a break, and definitely shouldn't be worrying about Crowley's sleep problems.

If he could just get some sleep, everything would be fine. He could ignore the aching feeling, pretend there was nothing gnawing away at his core. He'd spent _centuries_ ignoring this. He just needed to swallow it down, make everything seem fine. Aziraphale would come home, happy and rested, and everything would be fine.

After a few more days, he tried drinking. At first it seemed great. The vodka tasted sharp and clean, and he felt almost refreshed. Like nothing was bothering him. He poured himself shots, and made toasts to the empty air. It almost looked like he was having fun.

And then (as of course he should have known), it all went wrong. For a second, a split-second, he'd turned to Aziraphale, where he should have been, and there was no-one there. And Crowley was sobbing, shaking. He wanted to smash the vodka bottle against the wall, imagining the broken glass in his hand. Instead he crawled back to the sofa, and Aziraphale's lingering smell, mingled with the books and dust.

He pressed his thumbs hard into his eyelids, setting off internal dull fireworks. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Aziraphale seemed so far away, and he didn't understand why this was so _hard?_ They'd been apart for centuries before, and he'd faked his way through that ok. If only he could _sleep._

After nine days, Crowley's brain had slowed to a crawl. He was used to sleeping frequently though erratically, and this insomnia was a new experience. His brain was full of static, but he could still feel the constant aching. It just wouldn't end.

Huddled on the sofa, defeated, he rang Aziraphale. He answered blearily after a painful half minute – clearly Crowley had woken him.

“Crowley love, what is it? I was asleep...”

“'M sorry,” slurred Crowley. “Needed to hear you. Your voice.”

There was a pause and then Aziraphale's voice, worried: “Crowley dearest, you need to speak to me. What's wrong?”

“I dunno...” Crowley made an effort to focus on what Aziraphale was saying down the line. “You were gone, and I couldn't sleep...”

“How long have you been awake for?”

“... Since you've been gone. The whole time.”

“Crowley, that was a week and a half ago! I thought you were sleeping... I'll – I'll come home first thing.”

“_No._ I can't. Selfish. You need time away...”

“Dearest, I _miss_ you. The book festival is nice, but _you're_ not here. There's nothing more important to me than you.”

Crowley sniffed, and said nothing. When it was clear he wasn't going to respond, Aziraphale spoke instead. “I'm coming home. In the meantime, I want you to go lie in bed. Bring the phone.”

“'Kay...” Crowley didn't know why he was doing this, but he trudged upstairs and went to lie down. “I'm... I did it.”

“Good boy. Now, put your phone on that speaker thing. The one you showed me.”

Crowley stabbed at the device, and turned speakerphone on.

“'Kay. It's on.”

“Now lie back, and close your eyes. I'm going to read one of my new books to you. The Book of Dust, by Philip Pullman.” Aziraphale began reading, in a quiet soothing voice. Crowley felt the words wash over him. He couldn't make much sense of them, but his angel's voice poured into his tired brain and he felt himself drifting...

Aziraphale read aloud steadily for an hour, listening for Crowley's deep breaths down the phone. After he was certain the demon had dropped off fully, he still kept the line open, soothed himself by the connection. The few hours sleep he'd had were more than enough for himself – he'd only really done it to feel close to Crowley.

The angel spent the night pottering around his hotel room, always keeping the phone close to hand. He hummed down the line sometimes, or read out a few favourite lines from a book. After dawn, when the world was stirring enough for the trains to run, he reluctantly hung up, and left.

When he returned to the bookshop some hours later, he crept up the stairs as silently as he could. Crowley was wrapped up in bed in his favourite blanket, still asleep with a faint frown on his face.

Aziraphale undressed silently, and slipped into bed. He wrapped his arms round the demon protectively, and watched as the frown lines disappeared. He would remain watching until whenever Crowley awoke.


End file.
